


two weeks

by bittennails



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: F/F, M/M, Modern AU, basically started out at a small ficlet and ended up as 4000+ words of Gay Filth, with no mention of crime at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 01:19:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5186765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittennails/pseuds/bittennails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Package arrives on a Tuesday. </p>
<p>Or, the Team NY modern AU fic in the US Postal Service causes unwanted angst, but with ultimately happy results. </p>
<p>Featuring: brunch, historical ladies, winter scenes, domesticity, beautiful clothing, and a very threatening succulent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	two weeks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [L_Greene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Greene/gifts).



> \- The title comes from two songs that I listened to on repeat while writing this. They are "Two Weeks" by FKA Twigs and "Two Weeks" by Grizzly Bear. The story itself takes place in the timespan of less than one week. 
> 
> \- Please note that I am including historical lady characters (who do not appear in Boardwalk Empire, but who are related to historical Team NY). My decision to include these characters was very intentional, and I tried to write the interactions to the best of my ability, but please let me know if you have any concerns/questions!
> 
> \- Also, for those who do not enjoy reading sexually explicit material, please know that there is a copy in which these sections are clearly labelled (and thus, easily skipped) on my tumblr! 
> 
> \- As always, feedback is always appreciated

 

* * *

 

The Package arrives on a Tuesday.  

Meyer had seen it, of course, from his perch on the fire escape - a small, black bag glinting among the slush and salt, that he assumes one of their neighbors had ordered. 

That is, until he watches a familiar set of legs kick open the front door, an even more familiar forearm - burgundy flannel rolled up to the elbow, revealing the same ink that Charlie’s had since he went to juvie, that Meyer would tease him about if he didn’t have an idea of what happened there - snatch the box up from the stoop. 

And then, in a span of no more than five second, Charlie is glancing around - taking a moment to nod at the stray cat that lives in their trashcans, his only conspirator - and backing into the building. Like a cornered animal.

___

When Meyer comes back in from the cold and calculations, Charlie is in the kitchen, rattling through the pots and pans like he’s trying to shake out a secret. There’s a long box of spaghetti and some tomatoes on the counter. No package, though.

Meyer pauses in the doorway, thinks about what that might mean, and why the simple fact of not knowing settles so heavy in his chest. Like a stone.

_Ridiculous_ , he might think to himself. _Fucking ridiculous_. 

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he sidles up to the older man, padding near-silent on bare feet, and insinuates a hand around the back of Charlie’s neck. 

“I thought we agreed to avoid burning the building down.”

“That was your little friend’s fuckin’ fault.” It’s a quick jab, but it doesn’t hold any heat. 

“Anyway” Charlie gesticulates absentmindedly towards the food on the counter “I thought we’d get rid on some of this stuff. Y’now, waste not want not.”

And then he smiles. It’s only a brief quirk of the eyebrows and a tight curl of his mouth, but a smile nonetheless. 

Meyer feels something sink in his chest. It’s heavier than a stone. 

It's warmer, too. 

Laying in bed that night, a familiar arm thrown around his waist, Meyer tells himself he’s not going to think about the package. 

 

**Wednesday:**

It takes exactly twelve hours for Meyer to think about the package.

Anna picks at her toast like a bird assessing its crumbs. Esta scoops a spoonful of honey-macerated berries from her waffles. They’re holding hands under the table, and Meyer wonders how it’s possible for a person to eat with only a single hand free. Benny must too, judging by the toothy grin spreading over his face.

Oddly, though, he doesn’t say anything. It’s just as well, because Esta is looking up at Meyer , lips red with berry juice and, before he has time to interrupt her, or take a convenient smoking break, she leans forward. 

“You realize” she says, taking a swipe at Benny’s hand when he tries to steal some of the berries from her plate “that this is the second time Charlie has decided not to see me since I drank him under the table on New Year’s.”

Meyer’s throat goes dry. New Year’s evening was two weeks ago. He knows this because the moment they got home, Charlie’d had him pushed against the bedroom wall, eyes deceivingly wide and innocent when he’d taken Meyer into his mouth.

Meyer also knows, because of the memory of exiting the shower to find Charlie, sitting on the bed (still naked) and typing away on his laptop. He’d slammed it shut, once he had realized there was someone else in the room.

At the time, Meyer had only thought it was only to hide something vaguely embarrassing, but now, with the appearance (and disappearance) of the package, he’s beginning to connect unwanted dots.   

“Shh. That’s her way of saying she misses seeing you two hold hands.” Anna’s voice is soft - _it’s always soft_ \- and teasing, but her eyes are as hard as anything.

___ 

45 minutes and a scramble for change later, Meyer find himself standing between Anna and a glass wall, watching (somewhat forlornly) as Benny and Esta march down the street, arm in arm.

They disappear behind a snowbank, and Meyer turns back to Anna. She’s pulling out a cigarette. 

Without thinking, he takes out his lighter. 

Later, he’ll wonder if he was trying to be a good person, or if he was trying to appease her into not asking about Charlie. 

But Anna has only just leaned away from his hand, when she levels her at him and _asks_.

 “What was that look on your face, the one when my girlfriend…” - _that’s always the way she says it, “my girlfriend”, as if she has to remind herself that Esta is a tangible part of her life_ \- “…asked about Charlie. You know I saw it.”

Oh. _Oh_. Meyer wants to melt, wants to disappear, wants to be down the street with Esta and Benny. Because Anna is giving him that look, the same look she’s been able to give since high school - one of the few things that can make him feel small; exposed.

“It’s nothing.” 

_No, it isn’t._

Anna opens her mouth, like she’s going to press him. In the end, though, she just bites her lip, and smiles. 

“You know…” her cigarette is dropped into a snowbank with a pitiful hiss. He hadn’t realized they’d been standing there long enough for it to burn out. “That look…it was same one you would make in 11th grade, when I’d ask you about that Italian boy with the tattoos that kept harassing you by the bus drop-off.”

Meyer swallows. “I was…”

“You were an asshole.” 

_I know._

__

She walks him to the end of the block, takes out her phone and taps the screen as she’s backing away from him. _Text me if you want to talk_. 

**Thursday:**

_Tell me,_ Meyer thinks, with one of his hands buried in Charlie’s hair, the other smoothing along Charlie’s hip.  

There are times when sex between them is nearly a physical exercise - something that leaves both of them exhausted and aching, panting on opposite sides of the bed, before gradually meeting in the middle. 

And then there are the times like this, where Meyer waits until Charlie is mewling and half-begging before he finishes opening him up, where he fucks him slow and thorough.

He pushes in ( _slowly, always slowly_ ) and the older man swears, his back arching ( _god_ ) and head dropping heavy between his shaking shoulders. 

They’re a little paler than they are in the Summer, when Charlie will spend hours lounging around in the sun like a contented cat, but Meyer wants to kiss the warmth from them all the same (wants to do a lot of things, he’s realized). 

_Tell me_ Meyer thinks, pressing his face - open-mouthed - to the juncture of Charlie’s neck. He tastes salt and sunlight. He tastes _mine_. 

He waits until the very end until he changes the angle - shifts Charlie’s hips under one large hand and thrusts, right _there_. Charlie’s long since moved from dirty english to gutter sicilian to nonverbal whimpers and twitches, but he lets out a string of swears when Meyer finally gives it to him where he _needs_ it, and it only takes a few more thrusts before they’re both collapsing onto the bed, tangled among the sheets and blankets. 

Charlie whimpers at the absence when Meyer pulls out, but when he looks up at Meyer (pupils blown wide, eyes dark and mossy) his face has that small smile on it, the one that makes him look painfully young, despite the scars. The one that just says _hi_.

 

**Friday:**

A: _How are things?_

A: _I’m still not going to ask about what’s going on with you and your boyfriend._

A: _If that’s what you’re wondering._

A: _However…my girlfriend wants to get very drunk and yell with Ben tonight_

A: _and I need someone to be (more) sober with._

A: _If you are interested/able._

M: _When are you getting there?_

 

**Saturday:**  

It’s Saturday morning, and Meyer’s a little exhausted, maybe, a little restless, maybe - glass after glass of cheap whiskey pressed into his hand, and he really should have said no to Benny, when it mattered.

_Esta had just laughed, of course, before taking another drag of her cigarette and whispering something into Anna’s ear._

_Anna, who had just stared at him with her deep-set eyes - even darker in the smoke and neon of the bar._

The streetlights are dark by the time he gets home. The neighborhood is caught in its own microcosm of blue pre-dawn sky, with the smallest hint of a chemical sunrise on the horizon and the tops of the snowbanks that line their street. He hears a garbage truck somewhere, the trash can cat hissing at him from atop one of alley-way dumpsters. 

The young couple that lives across the alley from them is arguing again - something about thermostats - and the world, for a moment, is just that: all the mundane noises of New York that would have made him pause and actually listen, if he were more sentimental, and even less sober.

Instead, Meyer steps through the doorway. He takes the stairs two at a time, and pauses, only for a moment, before he unlocks their door. If his fingers fumble - mostly from the darkness of the hallway - he’ll never admit it. 

When they’d first moved in, Benny had bought a plant for them; a succulent with small, thin spines that extended too far for their own good. Charlie had eyed it suspiciously for the better part of a month, but it had somehow survived, and so it greets him silently from it’s place on the counter when he steps through their kitchen.

He strips off his coat, his gloves, his shoes. By the time he’s through their bedroom door, thin ropes of sunlight have made their way under the shade. It illuminates the dull blue of the comforter, a thin strip of golden skin where Charlie had thrown his arm across it.

There are moments where Meyer can barely look at Charlie for how bright he shines, for how much the heat of him stings at Meyer's throat and chest. There are moments where watching Charlie is almost painful - the ache in your bones when you come in from the cold, before your body has adjusted to unexpected comfort. 

In this moment, though, the warmth just settles gently under his sternum, and he allows himself to insinuate himself into the bed slowly, making sure to warm up before he eases between Charlie’s back and the wall, pressing his face into the nape of Charlie’s neck and inhaling (smoke, cedar, citrus). He nuzzles into the bruise that he’d left there. Charlie shifts against him and murmurs something unintelligible, his breath warm on Meyer’s arm where it had come to wrap around Charlie’s chest.  

After an hour, Meyer feels the other man stir.

Charlie usually wakes up half-grudgingly, as if his consciousness is a favor to the world, reluctantly given. Today, however, he stretches languid and gentle, humming when his back shifts against the hardness of Meyer’s torso. 

Meyer looks down at him, feels something growing in his chest - more hot anticipation than comfort-home-warm. He knows what this is, knows what deliberation, feels like. 

 And then he speaks.

“Charlie…if you’re not telling me something, it’s all right.”

Charlie’s body hardens in second - his whole body alive with tension. Meyer can feel it, even through his clothes, even through the alcohol and sleeplessness. 

“What?” It’s the first this Charlie has said all morning. His voice is scratchy and pillow-muffled, but Meyer can feel the sharpness in it. Something in him drops - a familiar stone.

“If there’s anything you don’t want to tell me…that’s…your choice.” Meyer lowers his voice. “You’re not obligated to tell me everything.’

Charlie turns to face Meyer. His hair is tousled, but his eyes are shrewd and calculating. He stares at Meyer for a moment and, quick as anything, shimmy’s out of the bed and into the bathroom. 

___

They’re silent the rest of the day, and it’s _strange_ , how different the apartment feels without the familiar cursing coming from the kitchen, the bits of near-constant communication that have existed between the two of them for longer than either could care to remember. 

Meyer sits on the fire escape until his fingers become numb, the neat calculations in his notebook become only half-intelligible scrawl. He’s started to count bricks on the building across the street when he hears the familiar groan of the warped windowpane being forced open and, before he has time to pretend he was doing something worthwhile, Charlie is scrambling through it. 

“Jesus. How the fuck do you sit out here all day?”

“The cold makes one alert” Meyer deadpans, failing to mention the convenience of the view, in recent days. 

 “ _Whatever”_

 There’s only silence for a few moments, both of them squatting on the windowsill in the cold and wind of the city. 

And then, Charlie turns towards him. 

“Look…” he says, fiddling with the box of cigarettes that he keeps tucked into the pocket of his flannel “…I know, you know…fuck.” He looks over to Meyer. “What I’m trying to say is - what if I am…not showing you, something?” He glances down at the street, accesses a group of preschoolers crossing the intersection at the end of their block. “What if I showed you it? 

Meyer’s throat goes dry, fingers shaky and uncoordinated when he goes to pocket his notebook and pencil. This is the answer to a question that he’s been asking himself for days, and here it is, laying itself out for him. 

“If that’s…what you want.”

Charlie gives him a look. 

 “ ‘Course it’s what I want.”

And then he’s pulling Meyer through the window, and into their living room. 

__

“Don’t you fucking look.”

It’s decided. Charlie will go into the bedroom to get whatever he’s about to show Meyer. He will keep the bedroom door closed. 

Meyer, meanwhile, will wait outside. He will not ask Charlie what it is. He will not open the bedroom door. 

Meyer leans against the edge of the couch, arms crossed to hide their trembling.

He hears the creak of floorboards, the strange whisper of fabric against skin. 

 And then Charlie steps through the door.

__

Years from now, Meyer will think back to the image of Charlie in the bedroom doorway - the faintest hint of warm blush on his cheeks, one foot sliding nervously along the floorboards. And then, the entire beautiful line of his nylon-enclosed leg, bracketed at the sides by the garter straps, framed from above by the delicate panties and garter belt.

The fact of the matter is that Meyer often finds Charlie beautiful. 

He finds Charlie beautiful when Charlie is touch-drunk and needy. He finds him beautiful when he’s stumbling home after Esta drinks him under the table. He finds him beautiful when he's banging through pots and pans and turning to tell Meyer what he's making for dinner.

Times like that, and Meyer is always able to (always has to) find a way to swallow the warmth that gathers in his mouth, like good whiskey, and speak to Charlie like nothing has changed, like they’re still kids. And never mind that they fuck on a semi-regular basis, that Charlie is the one of the only people that has made Meyer really, actively _want_. 

If he were in any other state, Meyer would comment on the color that Charlie had chosen - a lovely pale blue. He would have mentioned how good the panties look, slung low around Charlie's hips. 

It’s now, more than ever, that Meyer wants to speak. He tries to think of something quick and clever to distract himself from the lace; from the half-faded bruise on Charlie’s neck (the one that Meyer left there).

But instead, the only thing that comes to mind, alongside the familiar words _beautiful_ and _perfect_ and _mine_ \- is _I love you_.

The words hang there, for a brief, heady moment of clarity, before repeating themselves - louder,this time. _I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you_. 

Meyer wants to say them into the warmth of Charlie’s mouth, wants to wrestle him onto the bed and bite them into his skin. It’s frightening, though, overwhelming, and he only just realizes that he’s unprepared for this. 

If Charlie had been a figure, a formula - something with an end result that Meyer could quantify, could scribble down into the margins of his notepad and then tuck away -Meyer would know exactly what to do. But he’s not, and Meyer realizes, in one pained, strangled moment, that he’s never loved somebody before, not like this. The realization is terrifying and lovely, in equal measures.

But then, he looks up at Charlie. Charlie, who is standing half naked in the cold of their apartment, who has marks that he doesn't talk about, who brings him food when he’s been sitting on the fire escape for too long, who curls into Meyer’s touch and puts his trust in Meyer and fucks him and _doesn’t_ fuck him - who is far too beautiful and bright for his own good. 

Charlie, who is shivering in front of Meyer, curling into self-consciousness and embarrassment, and backing away from him.

“S’ok, I know it’s weird, you don’t have to pretend to…”

Charlie has already backed into the bedroom when Meyer manages to cross the threshold - catching Charlie’s hips with his hands - and leans up to gently press a kiss to his collar bone. He leans back, and looks up and Charlie. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s not weird. It’s…” Meyer inhales - it’s _beautiful, beautiful beautiful_ \- “good Charlie, it’s so good.” He pauses to trace his thumbs along the border of the panties. Charlie makes a small, choked noise in the back of his throat. “You’re so good, coming to me like this, showing me.” 

He means every word, but there’s also satisfaction in the knowledge that what he’s saying is going to make Charlie melt. 

And, like clockwork, Charlie does just that - muscles softening when he reaches up to cup Meyer’s jaw, to run his finger’s through the fine strands of hair at the nape of Meyer’s neck, and Meyer finds the limits of his vision blur, for a moment, simply by the merit of how good it feels when Charlie’s fingers move against his skin, that he hadn’t even realized that they were moving backwards until Charlie’s nylon-clad legs bump against the edge of the bed - _their be_ d.

Meyer pauses for a moment, the weight of decision and responsibility on his spine. It’s only a brief pause, though, before he’s letting go of Charlie’s hips, and pushing him onto the bed. 

Charlie makes a lovely, surprised noise when he falls back onto the mattress, but it’s nothing compared to the noise that exits his mouth when Meyer drops to his knees between Charlie’s legs. 

 Meyer considers Charlie for a moment - legs spread to accommodate his kneeling body, chest heaving, the way his underwear accommodates the growing bulge beneath the fabric. 

It’s a good view, despite the press of the floorboards against his knees, and save for the fact that he needs Charlie to be closer. And, he thinks, isn’t that how it’s always been? 

He looks up at Charlie, first. Fights his voice into calm smoothness when he meets Charlie’s eyes, and asks “what do you want me to do?”

“You’re going to make me ask for it?”

“Yes.”

Charlie’s fingers thread through his hair, gently. He’s unused to this position, but his fingers are nearly answer enough. 

Not quite, though. Meyer needs to hear him _say_ it.

“Fuck, touch me. Please.” his fingers card affectionately through Meyer’s hair “I need you to touch me. That’s…what I want you to do. _Please_.”

And that’s all Meyer needs. 

__ 

It’s a bit of a shame, removing the panties (he makes sure to tell Charlie as much), but it’s worth it to see Charlie laying there - exposed, save for the thigh-highs and garter belt.

Worth it, too, to hear the noise Charlie makes when Meyer smooths his hands along Charlie’s thighs, and says “put your legs over my shoulders, if you please.”

__

He starts on Charlie’s hips - scrapes his teeth against the curve of the hipbone, before soothing the sensitive skin with his mouth. 

“ You know, I actually loved the way those panties looked on you” _he presses a kiss against the hollow of Charlie’s stomach_ “you looked so wonderful in them” _the cliff of his ribcage_ “but you, open for me…you know what it does” _the tops of his thighs_ “you’re always so patient, so _good.”_

When he takes the tip of Charlie’s cock into his mouth - flicks his tongue, somewhat meanly, against the slit - Charlie’s already so far gone that he forgets propriety, a little. He body arches, legs shaking against against Meyer’s back. Meyer can feel Charlie’s toes curling through the fabric of his sweater.

Meyer pulls back - “Are you all right?”

“Fuck, yes, I swear, if you stop…oh _fuck_.”

Meyer takes Charlie in his mouth again, looks up at Charlie’s face (eyes squeezed shut, panting openly now). His hands slide down from where they’ve been holding Charlie’s legs up (now he just has his body to bear the weight, but it’s very much worth it), and slide underneath Charlie’s ass, grabbing at the flesh and gently pushing his hips towards Meyer’s mouth.

He bobs his head, experimentally - he usually doesn’t need to do this to get Charlie off - hollowing his cheeks and humming affectionately when Charlie mouths off again, in pleasure-broken Italian. 

He goes slow, because he knows that Charlie is hypersensitive, like this; because Charlie is precious, like this (is precious always, really). He shivers when Meyer takes him all the way in, too far gone to shake and moan, but near glowing when he asks Meyer, in a near-silent, breathless, voice, for _more_. Meyer obliges, pressing his tongue flat against the underside of Charlie’s cock and pulling back to the tip, before taking him back in.

When Charlie does come, there’s no violence to it, none of the usual swearing and shuddering that usually comes with a good fuck. Meyer is almost anxious for a moment, is still slightly unused to seeing the dreamy, touch-drunk state that Charlie sometimes allows himself to be reduced to, but he’s familiar enough with it to know he has to be gentle.

Is familiar enough, too, that he knows to gently tug and push Charlie’s body until he’s curled languid and warm under the covers. A trip to the kitchen (and a glass of water placed on the bedside table) later, and he’s able to join him, sliding up against Charlie’s body and pulling him close. 

Charlie comes back in gradual increments, sighing and stretching against Meyer’s body. When he finally turns to face him, the softness of his face makes something in Meyer lurch, a wave of affection that never really ends. 

Charlie kisses him on the mouth, glances down between their bodies, and asks “do you want me to…?”. 

He nods when Meyer shakes his head. He knows about Meyer’s boundaries, how sometimes he just doesn’t want it. Charlie would never push them. 

They rest for a long, long time - accompanied only by the occasionally hiss of the radiator and the ever-constant moan of winter from beyond the bedroom window. 

All the while, Meyer watches Charlie, rolling new found words in his mouth - the warmth in his chest jolting whenever their legs brush. 

So that, when Charlie finally does turn to face him - their legs tangling together under the blankets - Meyer nearly wants to hide his face. 

Charlie just stares at him, a slight, mischievous smile spreading on his face.

“Did you mean it? When you said you liked it?” 

 “Liked what?” Meyer quirks a small smile. It’s a good mask.

Charlie just makes a frustrated face, the face that says _you fucking idiot_ , that says _you’re lucky I’m with you_ (Meyer knows he is), and runs a single foot against Meyer’s bare ankle, as if he needs to be _reminded_. 

Meyer looks at him.

There’s a pair of lace underwear on their bedroom floor; a cactus on the kitchen counter. The other day, he had breakfast with a woman who, by all common social rules, should rightfully hate him. The snow is melting outside, and he’s sharing a bed Charlie Luciano. 

_I love you,_ Meyer thinks. _I love you_.   

Someday, perhaps, he’ll tell him. But today, in their bed, he simply loops his arms around Charlie’s neck, drawing him closer. He presses his face into Charlie’s neck, inhales cedar, smoke, and citrus. More importantly, though, he smells  _home_.   


* * *

 


End file.
